Romans 8.20

I wrote this last September, while feeling weary. It seemed that creation, too, was tired, and waiting for consolation. 

The stones of the eastern wall are weary;
Dew drips from the roof with resignation:
Come, come; when will he come?
The bones of the trees ache with age
And the wind grows weak and cold.

Pale light sweeps the battered creation—
It is John the Baptist, come with his lamp.
Knees aching as he climbs the horizon, 
Still he ascends to his pulpit.

one more day, one more day.
He will come, he will come soon.

The Field

Happy New Year! I wrote this poem a few weeks ago. I hope you find it encouraging.

I came upon a fallow field
And found a farmer standing there,
Considering how to make it yield
It’s share.

“O Sir!” I cried, “This land’s no good!
See how it barren, stony lies?
For all your sweat and all your blood
It dies.”

But the farmer took no heed
Of my rational demand,
Just hefted a small sack of seed
In hand.

“Old man, you do not understand
The price I paid for this poor plot;
To hear which I for it have planned
You ought.

I purchased this with my own life,
These blood-bought seeds. they fall as dew.
I plough in hope, and hoping wait
For you.

See now, you are the similitude,
You are the land clogged thick with clay.
And out of clay I’ll make a man

You must receive the worded seed,
Receive my blood which falls as rain–
The painful ploughing then won’t be
In vain.

You will have that for which  I died,
You’ll see my Passion’s just increase;
For righteousness will sprout inside,
And peace.

Then the Farmer turned away,
His furrows dug upon my soul,
His word within implanted made
Me whole.

I looked upon that fruitful field,
And saw a harvest of his tending,
A tree of life which bears its fruit
Ne’er ending.



Good evening,

Don’t know if I’ve ever posted this before. I wrote this in 2012, trying to see the cosmos like the medievals. Perhaps you’ll see it as a welcome break from all this exegesis stuff.

Dark phantasmagoria
In madness bound by Cynthia
Gaia’s sickly children long
For brightly lit Empyrean.

In flowing speech and language fair
Where silver parts and silver meets
They hear the fair and winged one
Tell them of Empyrean.

Though yet with darkened eyes, they see
Unimagined bright beauty;
Long straight arms of burnished bronze
Point to fair Empyrean.

Next the children of the Fall
Reach Helios’ golden hall
Yet even the incandescent sun
Is a shadow of Empyrean.

The ragged travelers nearly turn
From gates of iron, black and stern
But martial spirits urge them on
To march to grand Empyrean.

To the courtly dwelling of king Jove
Our small and weary seekers rove
Though respite comes in bright pavilions
True kingly splendor is Empyrean’s.

Black leaden lands they come to last
And feel cruel Saturn’s mortal blast
But death Earth’s sons will gladly welcome
To walk into Empyrean.

Here baptized in the stream of stars
The wanderers wash away their scars
Styx is their Jordan; out they come
Now ready for Empyrean.

At last to everlasting day
The travelers have made their way
They’re greeted by a nail-scored Son–
The bright Lord of Empyrean.


I Found Something

Boy, is my face red.

My father berated me the other day for not posting- I think he wants another installment of things he always says. I do need to finish up some things and put them here, but life has got me by the throat. In the meantime, here is a little quatrain I found which I had written sometime last year. I hope you will enjoy it.

Before the first Adam ate, the second died,
Ere worlds were made, Christ crucified
So that the first might be forgiven,
Adam calling Adam up into heaven.


John 11

I wrote this and another poem in an ABACCB scheme, which I’m not sold on. But given yesterday’s post from John 11, I thought I would put it up here.

From Bethany came the request
Sent to the Lord of Life,
“The one you love is near to death.”
“The grave is not your brother’s end,
This is God’s glory to commend,”
The Son of God replied.

For love that raises up the dead
The Teacher two days tarried,
Then to his followers simply said
“He’s gone, and I’m glad for your sake.
Belief, not life, is here at state-
Our friend is four days buried.”

Thirteen mourners then drew nigh,
Twelve of their lives despairing,
God’s holy tears gleamed in his eyes,
Yet in the Man of Sorrow’s face
Grief was by hope quickly replaced-
New life he was preparing.

“It did not have to be this way,”
Said Martha, still believing.
“I am the Resurrection Day,”
Came Jesus’ soft reply,
“He who believes will never die.
You need not keep on grieving.”

Then Mary came, fell at his feet,
Now with tears twice washed by her.
The Life was troubled by her plea-
He wept so open and aloud
“See how he loved!” came from the crowd,
“Why was he late, this Healer?”

They showed him where the dead man lay;
He lifted up his eyes.
“Thank you Father,” Jesus prayed,
“I know that you hear me always,
But so these dead men I might raise-
Come out!” The God-Man cried.

A gasp came from the tear-stained throng
When out Lazarus came.
Death fled before the True Life’s song
Foreshadowing that future day
When Life would die so death to slay
And man might live again.


A Better Word

“You have come… to Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel.” -Hebrews 12:22, 24

“Mercy triumphs over judgment” -James 2:13

A man returns up from a field
Where his job is to make it yield
Its fruit;
The secret is to work and sweat
For food, so as not to forget
The Fall.
But looking at his hands reveals
The dark-red blood, not yet congealed-
Or silent.
A brother’s blood cries out to God
From underneath the well-tilled sod
For judgment.

A man lies dead inside a grave
Whose job it was to die and save
The lost.
He willingly went to his death
And cried out with his final breath,
“It’s finished!”
But looking at his cold hands shows
The dark-red blood and nail-made holes-
Not silent.
The Firstborn’s blood cries out to God
From a fresh-cut graveyard plot
For mercy.
That man now sits upon a throne
Who died to ransom all his own
From darkness.
His blood now speaks a better word
Than him who tended that first herd
Of cattle.
Mercy over judgment breaks
For judgment kills but mercy makes
A people.
And so now Adam’s greatest Son
Can give the people that he’s won